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A watchmaker somewhere in warps

Found them spinning knots and dots

They were spiders, living on the edge of saliva

You may call them cobwebs fondly

You may iron them out of your views

Knots as you know is an intricate thing

It is mathematical, physical, chemical and delicate

Spiders, as I know, never believed in chaos

They eat all sort of disorder and then converse

They meditate in madness, mediate with death and quagmire

Yesterday in the backyard of my home, I found one of them spinning

He was irked and jumping frivolous when I touched its web

As if I was a critic of his lively poems

As if I was a rotten monster eyeing his weaves and waves

I saw him circling, spiraling, warping, cubing, caving, cruising

All in the gargantuan layers of his minuscule world

How does he rotate on his own axis?

He moves, mocks, minces, mazes as if he is the lord of his knots

Indeed he is until there is brutality

Every inch of his body and mind

Every atom of his saliva

Every ounce of his poisons

Every ripple in his random house

Every wave in this woven wonders

They make him the god of gazes

And I am just an external flesh

Irrelevant to his dexterous charms

And I just evaded his glowing gaze

All in a couple of human minutes